


make your home behind my eyes

by cathly



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 21:50:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9291059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathly/pseuds/cathly
Summary: If he were to name this feeling, he would call itmisbelonging—— If she were to name it, though, she would choose the farthest word frombeing known.





	

**Author's Note:**

> the title comes from "holy branches" by radical face; you can find the tumblr post [here](http://cathly.tumblr.com/post/155544167037/basorexia-would-love-braven-but-everything-else); this is set between the second and the third season and consequently ignores everything that happens later on. english isn't my first language, so all weirdness is on me.
> 
> for [akzseinga](http://archiveofourown.org/users/akzseinga/).

 

*

 

There is anger buried deep in Bellamy’s chest, like simmering lava in a dead volcano, and the pressure is always building. There is no name for this feeling, for this resentment that tastes like his own damn blood, for the knowledge that the world offers nothing and yet expects payment all the same. There are bruises even on the inner side of his skin and his knuckles are split open, but there is no end to this war.

If he were to name this feeling, he would call it _misbelonging_.

The thing is — he sees the same anger in Raven’s eyes. There is defiance in everything she does, in every choice she makes, in every battle she picks. The world offers her nothing, either, so Raven carves all she needs out of thin air, making bombs out of tin cans, building braces for her battle scars, turning her mind into one of the deadliest weapons they have.

The thing is — the anger in Raven’s eyes makes Bellamy want to step closer rather than step away.

He watches Raven argue with Abby, watches the stubborn set of her jaw and the proud tilt of her chin, and he imagines pressing his lips against the warm spot on Raven’s neck, where he’d be able to sense her pulse. He knows it would be steady, like air in the eye of a hurricane.

He watches Raven work on another one of her projects, watches the tension in her shoulders, and he imagines pressing his lips to the curve of her spine until the tension bleeds out, until she allows herself to lean on something, anything, instead of always forcing herself to stand on her own two feet. 

He watches Raven drive, her hands as steady and sure on the wheel as they are on a sniper rifle, and he imagines pressing his lips against the crossroads of veins on the inner sides of her wrists, imagines being able to feel the strength running so close to the surface of her skin.

When he kisses her lips for the second time, he almost expects to taste gunpowder.

 

*

 

There is loneliness buried deep in Raven’s chest, like a grain of sand swallowed by a clam. One day, she knows, all grains of sand turn into pearls, smooth and cold and indestructible, and when it happens, there is no looking through the reflective surface. If there is a name for this feeling, for this ever-hungry solitude which drains all warmth from her bones, Raven doesn’t know it.

If she were to name it, though, she would choose the farthest word from _being known_. 

The thing is — she senses the same loneliness in Bellamy. There is always this space around him, wherever he goes, no matter how many people surround him, and the farther he and Octavia drift apart, the farther that space stretches in all directions. No one else seems to notice, but Raven knows that loneliness is not something you can see — because loneliness is the absence of anyone caring to _look_. 

The thing is — Raven doesn’t want to look away.  

She watches Bellamy as he waits for Clarke to come back; watches the way he carries the burden of their shared choices, and she imagines pressing her lips to the sharp edges of his shoulder blades, imagines tasting the weight of the world resting on his shoulders.

She watches Bellamy push through his limits and then past them, sleeping less and less, trying to become an army of one so that some of them don’t have to, and she imagines pressing her lips to his knuckles, molding his fists into something that can be held. 

She watches Bellamy skim through an old book he must have brought from the Mount Weather, shuffling through pages he knows by heart, and she imagines writing a new story on the texture of his skin, between the scars and over the bruises, until she runs out of words in every language she knows.

When she kisses his lips for the second time, she almost expects to taste sand.

 

*

 

In the end, what happens is this —

The world is familiar in its hostility and the war is familiar in its endlessness, but there is always a pause between one breath and another, and it’s not something that has to be stolen or earned. It’s something that just is, like a shared heartbeat chasing the loneliness away, like belonging built with battered hands.

In the end, what happens is this —

Sometimes their kisses taste of gunpowder and sometimes they taste of sand.

More often than not, though, they taste of home.

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! ♥


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